


Pressing Lilies

by Lover_of_all_things_Pat



Series: Bubbly Orange [Verse] [3]
Category: All Elite Wrestling, Professional Wrestling
Genre: Aggression, All Aboard Team Darby, Assault, BRIAN CAGE IS A GOOD GUY, Brian Cage is TRYING, Bubbly Orange, Car rides, Depiction of Injuries, Frottage, Jon needs to save this boy, Kidnapping, M/M, Molestation, Moxley loves that kid, Near Death Experience, Obsession, Other tags to be added, Ouch, Poor Darby needs love and skateboards, Respect for Allin's lady legs, Ricky's motives do a 360, Skateboarding, Violent tendencies, adrenaline rush, adrenaline-induced horny behavior, angel lust, carsex?, coffin drop, it's gonna get better!, ladder, noncon, nonconsensual handjob, power trip, relentless - Freeform, so much Darby bashing, story gets hella dark, tape, touch-starved Darby Allin, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:41:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26701582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lover_of_all_things_Pat/pseuds/Lover_of_all_things_Pat
Summary: The taste of blood clung to Darby's mouth with near-permanence and bruises lined his flesh like a mosaic artwork. But he never was one to let limitations and circumstance pull him down. [Darby spinoff, references to the Bubbly Orange Verse]
Relationships: Darby Allin/Dean Ambrose | Jon, Darby Allin/Jon Moxley, Darby Allin/Ricky Starks
Series: Bubbly Orange [Verse] [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1927756
Comments: 55
Kudos: 27





	1. Plucked at the Stem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story order, for those unaware:  
> Bubbly Orange  
> Struggle  
> Pressing Lillies
> 
> \- Champagne Corks and Orange Peels is where all additional content is added

The dark hours descended, a black shroud overhead dotted with unassuming starlight outshined by street lamps and their light pollution. The atmosphere itself was chilled and damp, the asphalt glistening with moisture after an aborted rain.

The skate park was closed, but Darby was determined to make his own fun. He took a breath and drew in the crisp air. The expansion of his lungs felt good and he savored it. The solitude was good for him, and his evening plans were something he'd looked forward to all day.

He grabbed a _borrowed_ ladder and set it appropriately, tested the sturdiness and frowned a little. This would go a lot smoother if he had someone to hold it while he kicked off. But most people he knew were assholes and tools, and he was willing to take a few falls if it meant avoiding them. He tucked his skateboard under his arm and ascended carefully, all the way to the top where he perched, braced himself, and maneuvered his board between the ladder's top rung and his foot.

He looked down, judged the height of the ladder with the slope of the of the winding road ahead. He expects his first few attempts to fail, but he's ready for it. A few bumps and abrasions are nothing new. He kicks off, feet planting on the board and-

-and he hits the ground, hands scraping the asphalt and board deciding to roll down the slope. He curses under his breath, gets up and chases after his board, a light jog that slows to a leisurely walk when he gets close. He collects his board and makes his way back up the hill and to the ladder for round two. He climbs again, fixes his board where it needs to be, and gets ready to go again.

Except, he doesn't.

And it isn't nerves. He's not wimping out over a little height.

He never gets a chance to make his second run because while he's up there and ready to go, there's the sound of pounding footsteps, strangely loud and almost echoing in the stale and near-empty atmosphere. He turns his head to look, curious as to who would be out at this hour in this fairly remote location.

He doesn't see a face. But someone is there, hood up and face shielded by night. This newcomer runs, approaches entirely too fast, grabs the ladder and jerks it hard enough to overturn it.

Darby loses his footing as the ladder topples, his skateboard drops and one leg gets tangled between ladder rungs. He falls with the structure and lands awkwardly on his shoulder. He turns, gets his hands under him and pulls his leg out of the ladder. "What's your problem, douchebag?" He gets up, dusts himself off a little and turns a hard glare to his assailant... only to be cut down by a well executed spear that lands him flat on his back, stuck between his attacker and the blacktop. He jerks and throws a hand up to push the other man off, but his efforts are seemingly in vain when he's effectively restrained and takes a few particularly brutal hits.

Darby catches a lucky break then, manages to slot his leg around his attacker and flip him with a hip throw. Newly on top, he sets to work trying to hold down his opponent. From the higher position, he can almost make out facial features. The skin tone, cut of the jaw... He tries to take in all the features at once and is caught by surprise when the man under him manages to work an arm free, grab hold of a nice sized rock and smash it into the side of Darby's head. It's painful and dizzying enough that the punk skater loses the upperhand.

Darby takes a few more solid hits with the rock before the object is discarded and the fight becomes a wholly one-sided fest of kicks.

Darby covers his head and curls up to protect himself, but he quickly forgoes the idea of preservation and takes a hard boot to the ribs- and he rolls with it, lets it assault give him a little momentum to get away. He's back up on his feet and staring down an apparent enemy-

-and what an enemy it is.

The hood had slipped down and that face is in full view.

"Oh, fuck you, Starks..."

Ricky Starks looks rightly menacing in the dim light. His usual charm and charisma washed away and replaced by something dark and cruel.

Darby turns full circle, looking for a camera- or worse, looking for Brian Cage or Taz. "If you wanted a match, you only had to ask," Darby mutters. And he means it. Unconventional bombardments like this, it isn't necessary. And it pisses him off. His palms are a little bloody from his first fall, and a dark corner of his mind yearns to get Ricky down and smear some of that blood on him. Grim satisfaction. A gross, poetic justice. Sacrificial lamb's blood, or something like that.

He doesn't think too hard on making his thoughts proper.

Ricky hadn't made another bowl for him, so Darby locates his skateboard and goes to collect it. He doesn't make it.

Someone other than Starks blindsides him from out of nowhere, kicks him in the back of the knees and drops him down, and then the new guy along with Ricky close in for a beating that would have looked impressive on tv. He's entirely too familiar with the feeling when his own skateboard is slammed against his back and his shoulder and then makes another return for his ribs and abdomen.

Darby never gets a look at his second attacker. He just knows it's a heavy hitter, and the fucker brought a roll of tape. Having his hands taped is nothing new, but having a strip wrapped around his head, that is definitely a new experience. There's a significant amount of dread there because he can acutely feel the adhesive on his eyelids, and he doesn't want to think about how it would feel to have that pulled off.

Once he's restrained and effectively blinded, he's easily carted off and dropped unceremoniously into the trunk of a car.

The last thing he hears before the trunk is slammed closed is Ricky's voice- breath hot against his cheek- "No hard feelings, right Allin?"

He doesn't dignify that with a response. The trunk closes and Darby begins a lengthy and futile fight to free his hands.

-Ricky's in the car, riding shotgun, and he can't believe what he's done. But he won't back down. He's come this far. It's not his fault Allin couldn't overpower him.

It's nothing personal.

Or so he tries to tell himself.


	2. Radical Opossum

Darker than dark, blacker than black. It can only be assumed that the interior of a trunk would be obscured by lightless gloom; Darby wouldn't know firsthand since the tape over his eyes is not only successful in preventing him from seeing, it inhibits adequate blinking as well. Trying to blink behind the tape, the adhesive pulled and caught on the tender skin of the lid and the fine blades of his lashes, and while it didn't outright hurt, it wasn't a comfortable feeling; thus he opted to keep his eyes shut and focus primarily on freeing his hands.

He twisted and wrenched, pulled for all his worth at the tape that had been wound thickly around his wrists, individually and then together. But all his tugging only made the tape tighter to the point where his fingers grew numb and cold from poor circulation. But he'd never been one to quit.

Why change things now?

For as long as he had will and drive and the physical capability, there would be no slowing down.

It was uncomfortable, unpleasant for sure, but not unbearable. He even mused over the trunk's resemblance to a coffin- except any coffin he gets buried in is sure to be of better quality. He wants the satin lining and the fancy pillow, dammit. But for now, the he's in a damn trunk, and he has Absolute Dicky Starks to blame. The libbed nickname brings a small smile to the young man's face and he makes a note to save the insult for later.

From his obligatory prone position, he's bounced around whenever the vehicle makes a sharp turn or the brakes are hit.

A particularly rough jostle has him cracking his head into one of the roughly upholstered walls, and it is sheer dumb luck that his hand comes into contact with an emergency release lever. His fingers hook around the T-shaped handle and when the trunk pops open, Allin tucks his legs under himself, perches on his knees and elevates the deck lid with the press of a shoulder. The night air pools in and whips at his face and assaults his lungs. The car is moving, clearly over a stretch of road, and he can only guess just how fast it's going.

It's now or never; he has no desire to wait and find out what the hell Starks is up to. He gets a foot under, kicks off and dives into open air. He isn't airborne long, and he can't use his hands to help break his fall when they're taped behind his back, but he is smart enough to tuck his chin towards his chest and turn bodily into the directional pull of gravity so that he rolls on contact instead of just taking a hard fall at full impact.

It still hurts when he lands, his shoulder and back slamming into the asphalt in a manner reminiscent of a botched coffin drop that puts him hard on the apron of a ring. He scrapes up his exposed forearms, rubs a raw bloody patch over his cheekbone just under the eye, and cuts a mean gash across his temple where he rolls over sharp gravel. He can't see where he is, but he can feel the chill of night creeping over his flesh, and he knows he's on the blacktop, and he can smell earth, rain, and grass- there's barely any smell of exhaust or pollution.

He must be well beyond city limits, which explains the lack of traffic.

He's sore and a little stunned, but determination and a well nurtured survival instinct urges him on. He makes himself move, gets his feet under him and blindly bolts in a straight line. He dares not stray off course. He doesn't want to get turned around, and if he goes one direction long enough he's sure to get help... or at least further from his bastardic captor(s).

He earnestly entertains the idea of getting away right about the time the car- which had previously served to be his own personal tomb- pulls around, stops idle, and Ricky is out and on his ass again, grabbing and lifting the skater off his feet. It's surreal, but even without the low grumbled threats, Darby should simply _know_ it's Starks. He's too familiar with those hands, the harsh press of forearms into his sternum when his feet leave the ground, the way his back feels against that chest... The overall experience is consistent with phantom-remembrance of their in-ring encounters.

"What the fuck's your deal?" Darby growls out the query while he kicks and squirms. He lands solid contact with one of his kicks but doesn't have enough leverage to put any real power behind it, rendering the attack ineffective, if not a little annoying. Ultimately, he fails to slip out of Ricky's grip, and he's carried back to the car. This time, instead of the trunk he's shoved into the backseat and he does his best to give Starks a difficult time.

Ricky slips in the car after Darby is essentially shoved in; he grabs at Allin's legs to keep him from fighting back, but he still takes a rubberized sole to the chin in the process. There's some shoving and a hard smack to combat the victim's squirming before Ricky gets a good hold for effective restraining.

Darby's face ends up slammed against the cold door and Ricky's pressed over top of him. It's more than cramped and uncomfortable, but the one thought Darby manages to latch onto and voice is: "Is... Is your dick hard?" He's breathing unevenly from exertion, his brows are knitted together in confusion, and he needs time to really process what the hell is going on. And yet, he's fairly certain he feels-

"Fuck you, Allin. You think you're so special with your face-paint gimmick and your dull, generic, goth persona... But you're an idiot. A joke. And you need to be put in your place."

"No. I need your dick away from my backside, you dumbass," is Darby's counter.

And the skater is both surprised and relieved when he hears jostling and feels Ricky's weight let off of him.

"You are so dead after this, Starks..."

Ricky doesn't dignify the threat with a response. He's confident Allin isn't going to be able to retaliate.

"If I can't end you, you know Mox will... Someone will cut you down and bleed you out. You're done. Your days are numbered-" Darby shuts up when Ricky's fist hammers down in one mighty blow to the bloodied side of his head. He's still conscious, but his head hurts and his brain gets a little fogged; it clears quickly enough, but he doesn't continue to verbally rebuke his assailant. He needs to think and plan his way out of this.

For now, he can play opossum.

But he won't sit quietly. He won't leave Starks with any amount of peace. " _I don't sleep 'cuz my head's on fire_..." he begins, voice low and menacing.

Ricky jolts into a more upright position, caught off guard by Allin's ploy. "Don't you start that bullshit. This isn't some match. There isn't going to be any rope breaks. No ref is going to ask if you're okay to continue, you dumb son of a bitch."

Darby struggles for a moment in the confined space but manages to roll so that he's laying on his back and his head is propped against the door at a more comfortable angle; he stretches his legs across the seat and rests them over Ricky's lap. " _I hate creeps, and I hate liars. Oh, you want a grave kept secret that I never tell..._ "

"You're such a melodramatic, punk ass bitch, Allin."

Darby changes tactics, shifts to rub his hands against the seat a little, trying to get circulation to return to his hands and fingers. "Seriously. I know you hate me, but what do you get out of this? Y'know... besides a boner? Is that the punchline? Should I be calling your Stroke Daddy? Is that where this is going?"

Starks drops a fist down hard on Allin's thigh- at least it was _meant_ to hit his thigh. It isn't a hard bump, but it's enough to induce a pained groan and has Darby shutting his mouth for the duration of the car ride.

When they reach their apparent destination, Darby is manhandled out of the vehicle and then pinned to the hood of the car while someone (Ricky? Or maybe the second attacker, who was presumably the driver?) scrapes a fingernail along the seamline between tape and flesh- and _oh God_ , if there is a God- the tape around his head is being peeled off.

Peeled.

Slowly.

That fingernail is cut short but it's also sharp, scratching at the tender skin along the side of his head, prying at the tape and trying to get a little piece of it lifted. There's so much scraping, that little nail digging, driving into sensitive skin, and then when it finally makes progress and the tape starts to lift...

Darby's hair and skin is pulled, feels like it's ripping. Hairs are torn out by their follicles and the epidermis strips away, leaving raw, angry red marks and spots of blood in the wake of the adhesive. An involuntary cry slips as the tape is forcefully peeled away from his face. He squeezes his eyes shut, afraid to open them, half-convinced that his eyelids are bleeding or completely removed. He squints harder, feels the tender skin of his lids, and it doesn't feel good. But at least there is skin over his eyes still. That's something. It takes longer than expected to get all the tape off, but when it's completely removed Darby's still reluctant to open his eyes.

"I fuckin' _hate_ you, Starks."

Even without the muttered words and the audible sincerity behind them, Ricky knows it to be a damning truth.

An awful, twisted part of himself wishes he hated Darby too.


	3. Minnow Trap

There's an error in communication as Starks excuses himself with a phone call and the unnamed party member takes initiative and throws Darby around like he weighs nothing, drives multiple hits into his smaller frame and paints the skater black and blue without explanation. Darby's got a mouthful of his own blood before the beating concludes and he takes a gamble to spit it at is attacker.

The response is a punishing blow to the cheek that has Darby's head whipping to the side with a decidedly dramatic but not dramatized flair. Additionally, the guy speaks for the first time since the abduction. "You diseased piece of trash..."

Darby sways a little and leans against a stone wall for support. A wicked red-lined grin warps his face and he chuckles because he recognizes that voice, and it seems so obvious. "There you are. The Machine... Brian Cage. Lagging behind Starks like a dog. Just some no-name bodybuilding henchman without him and Taz, huh?"

The punch Cage throws next is reflexive and mean, a low blow to the gut, and it has Allin doubling over and dropping to the ground. "You don't get to spit on me," Cage adds with a kick to Darby's midsection.

Darby pulls his legs lose, knees bent, curling in to try to protect himself from the next few kicks and punctuating stomps. It's a blessing that the assault isn't severe enough to crunch his bones; the big guy is more than capable of the feat. When the barrage comes to a surprisingly anticlimactic end, Allin gives into impulse, juts his chin up and cautiously opens his eyes. His lids feel raw and sore, tender like an open wound; it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust but sure enough there is Brian Cage, standing tall and larger than life with muscles seemingly ripping out of other muscles.

It's surreal and borderline ridiculous, that Team Taz is going to such lengths without divulging a clear motive.

Allin isn't as quick as he'd like to be, but he gets up and is able to keep steady on his feet. He doesn't know how to stay down, and he doesn't want to give The Machine Brian Cage any satisfaction over clocking him.

He doesn't need hands to make a statement.

-

Meanwhile, Ricky had to step away to answer an private call, and what he's hearing over the line is nothing short of infuriating. "We had an agreement, didn't we? So, what the hell do you mean? I am here with Al-

"You have the _groceries_..." The guy on the other line interrupts to prevent Ricky from saying something directly incriminating. And isn't that nice of him? "You have the groceries... and you're upset that I'm not there to help put them away?"

Starks is getting impatient, and with good reason. He shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, hoping to ward off the dull pulse of frustration before it becomes a full-on migraine. "What am I supposed to do with... the groceries? My little shopping trip better not have been a waste of time."

There's silence over the phone, followed by the sound of crunching. The guy's eating. A bag rustles. Then there's the sound of tapping- clicking, fingers over a keyboard and mouse. "I cant take in the groceries til tomorrow afternoon. You'll have to hold onto them overnight, and even then they might have to be stored in Bear Country for a couple days."

Starks doesn't know how to respond to that, so he doesn't. He ends the call and has to collect himself and his wits, restrain himself from throwing his phone and potentially breaking it. He pockets it and turns to trek back, trusting that his partner has the skater detained. What he finds upon returning to their rendezvous point, however, is Allin elevated, damn near horizontal, no strings attached, and landing a dropkick to Cage's chest.

Cage doesn't sell the kick like he would in the ring, but it still doesn't feel good and it catches him off balance enough to piss him off. "Ricky," Cage calls when he sees Starks approaching. "Take care of him before I break him." When Brian makes the threat, he means it. It wouldn't be too hard to snap a bone or two, to crush the smaller wrestler beneath his mass.

Before either Cage or Starks think to act, Darby dives, throws his whole self at Cage; it's a reckless attempt that doesn't pay off because Brian catches him and holds firmly, unyielding, squeezing tight.

Ricky looks over Darby and averts his gaze. Because he hadn't thought the tape would do _that_ kind of damage and it's painful to look at. The forming bruises don't look too good either. There's swelling, and purple contusions are making themselves known. And then there's the abrasions and cuts the moron received from jumping out of a moving vehicle... Starks feels a little less bad- and then a lot less guilty- when he reminds himself that Darby's injuries are partially self-imposed. The skater is used to taking bumps and getting hurt; he probably even gets off on the pain, craves and thrives on it like a masochist. The thought settles in Ricky's brain and he accepts it as fact. "Change in plans," he finds himself saying, and Cage looks unimpressed. "We need to hold onto Allin overnight, and he'll be picked up tomorrow afternoon."

Cage doesn't drop Darby; he _throws_ him to the ground, hard. He didn't sign up for this. "You said we were going to rough him up. You didn't say anything about kidnapping."

Starks still doesn't consider this kidnapping. It's a business venture. Throw enough zeroes on a check, and it's surprising what people are willing to do. "It's temporary," he states, and the way he looks at Cage, the way he speaks calm and slow- it's like an adult might speak to an angry child getting ready to throw a tantrum. "Nothing bad is going to happen."

Brian wants to believe Ricky, but he doesn't. He was on board with the jump, the assault, and maybe some threats. He was even okay with tossing the skater in the trunk- because it was a little funny. But it is decidedly less amusing to know that Ricky never planned this to be a catch-and-release scenario.


	4. Break the Mould

Ricky had always been a cut above everyone else, and whether it was because he was surrounded by morons or he was just that good, he never sought to question it. He just knew his place in life, and it wasn't average. So he put in the work when and where there was work to be put, and he reaped the benefits. The only downside is, it all came entirely too easy, until he found wrestling.

With wrestling, no matter how athletic or strong or smart you are, there is always going to be a bigger, stronger, smarter- or luckier- opponent somewhere along the line. Wrestling took more than hard work; it wasn't just some test to study for and then you're done. It was a lifetime commitment and a challenge that constantly evolves. Stay strong, stay fit, stay relevant. Don't stay down for that third count. Wrestling easily became his passion. His first taste of a shoot match and he knew he never wanted to do anything else.

Cutting promos, putting a lot of talk into a very short segment of film- Ricky could do that. He knew how to get his point across and look good doing it. But nothing quite got him over like getting his hands on someone and making them submit to his will.

There was a time, before he hit it big with a fancy brand, that he'd gotten a little too ambitious and a lot too curious. He got his opponent down, locked an armbar to the maximum strain that the other guy's body would allow, and while he waited for the guy to tap out or break free or - do something- he gave into impulse and applied just a little more pressure, all his body weight forcing that arm in a direction it should never go. His opponent was yelling something but the words filtered in garbled and unintelligible, and Ricky didn't let up until he heard and _felt_ the snap of bone.

Stunned by his own actions, he released his hold and threw himself back, as if burned. He was sweaty and panting, and his dick was popping up with an embarrasing friendly greeting while the official waved a doctor over.

Starks got into trouble, paid a fine and was suspended for a few weeks. And those few weeks were madness.

He's not sure how to explain it, but he'd gotten used to the abuse, used to the give and take of pain, used to being slammed on the mat and feeling the reverberation of someone else taking a hard fall. By the end of the first week, he missed it, craved it, yearned for it. By the end of the second, he was pushing himself too hard with training to the point where it was hard on his body.

An entirely too honest bout of insanity began to set it when he threw on a dark hooded sweater and went out on the town, searched up a decidedly uncouth part of the neighborhood and picked a fight with the first piece of trash he could find.

He needed the drive and the excitement, and this seemed to be the only way to get it.

He was easily the better fighter, well trained and more prepared, but he dragged it out, let the other guy get in a few hits before really wailing on him, hitting him hard with pent up force and adrenaline. Feeling the cartilage of the nose snap against his knuckles and seeing the small fountain of blood- that did him in, amped him up, got him a little too excited.

And horny.

He left the loser on the curb. And when he went home, still high on adrenaline and hard as a rock, when he grabbed at his dick and rubbed one out, there was still dry blood on his hands. And he kind of liked that too.

It was sick and maybe perverse, but it also made sense. Winning, empowerment, excitement- it all went together. And it's all he wanted out of life.

He'd tried to get his fix elsewhere. Tried stealing, even though he didn't financially need to. Tried wholesome charity, and even loan sharking and pool hustling. He racked up an impressive array of unorthodox and potentially illegal activities, but nothing even came close to how he felt when he towered over someone and simply broke them.

His first time watching Darby Allin fight was damn near a religious experience. The way Allin threw his whole self into everything he did, it reminded Starks a little bit of his own deranged and closeted ideals. He watched Allin fall and get back up again, watched him sweat and bleed, body paint smear and wet breathy gasps escape when he hit the apron, watched his eyes take on an almost drugged haze when he hit his head...

But he also watched Allin kick out of pins, roll through his own blood spatters on the mat, and get back up when a lesser freak would have stayed the fuck down.

Allin forced Cody Rhodes to a time limit draw, which was a feat itself, but with each match he grew more impressive, and the look on his face when his eyes go wide and he looks -for lack of a better word- wild...

Ricky wants to wreck that. On a deep, primal, needy, hungry level, he wants that.

Wrestling Darby in the ring, there's rules, and they already know the outcome, but they don't really communicate or prepare one another for how they're going to tackle the match. Some wrestlers take time to discuss it ahead, but Starks likes the surprise and Allin isn't a social butterfly. So when they fight it out, they put all they have into it.

Ricky's buddied up with Brian Cage and pitches his own ideas- because he wants a running feud with Allin. The pitch goes well and he gets a taste of that, but it seems more teasing than pleasing, and it's just not enough.

He redirects his focus as soon as he can, because he's smart enough to recognize an unhealthy obsession. He goes back to picking street fights, and it helps... but it's not the same. Because none of those lowlife assholes are Darby fuckin' Allin.

He searches online, when he dares himself desperate enough to creep, and he comes across videos. And dammit if those videos aren't fan-fucking-tastic. Watching Allin put himself at risk and break himself up... on purpose. Just thinking about it, let alone seeing it gets Ricky's blood rushing hotly through him. He appeases himself with a little light stalking when he and Allin are in the same town.

Allin's predictable as hell. If there's something tall and potentially dangerous, he's climbing and attempting to kick off with his board. He sees Allin take a hard fall, skateboard rolling away and back slamming unforgivably into concrete, and there's a momentary idea- an impulse- to run to the other wrestler's aid. But he doesn't. Instead, he watches, transfixed, as Darby forces himself up, walks partially hunched over with a hand pressed to his lower back, and goes to collect his board.

It's as crazy as it is beautiful and dramatic, and it's even better when Allin turns to walk away and Starks, from his vantage point, catches the sheen of unshed tears.

How things go from bad and creepy to significantly worse, Ricky could try to cast blame, but he knows his faults bred from guilty pleasures.

It's pure chance he runs into some kind of underground associate. The associate introduces himself as Guy, and he looks a mess. Scraggly and unkempt, reeking of weed and alcohol... but he's got a Rolex strapped to his wrist.

Guy says he runs a business, that he promotes and he sells, and he's looking to get his hands on some new product. Something fresh and exciting.

Ricky should have turned Guy away and told him to fuck off. Lowlifes like that aren't worth his time. But he's bored, and there's a dark hunger inside that he doesn't know how to satiate. So, against his better judgement, he agrees. He and Guy go out for drinks and talk business.

Guy tries to sell him a Spanish God t-shirt, and Starks laughs his ass off because he doesn't want that shit. Who would?

"No, no. You won't sell those shirts," Ricky laughs. He's loosened up from the alcohol, so he forgives himself for the less than flattering tone. "You swap these out, replace Spanish God with Spanish _Fraud_ \- people will love that. It's funny. And accurate. Guevara's due for a loss anyway."

Guy seems to really consider it, and Ricky appreciates that his idea is valued.

"I got more ideas-" Ricky cuts in, and he tells them all. Ripoff ideas that he's certain people will buy. One of his favorites is taking Mox's graffiti'd name and changing it to _Cox_ on merchandise. He'd laughed hard enough that his eyes crinkled at the corners and were wet when he opened them. 

Guy had to reach over and grab him steady when he almost slipped off his seat. So, maybe he'd drank a little much, but he was having a good time, so he supposed it was fine.

Then he broached the subject of Darby Allin.

And that was a mistake.

Allin was something of a forbidden subject. Unless mocking him, Ricky didn't talk about the other wrestler. It opened him up in ways he wasn't ready to be exposed.

"No one has ever hurt so pretty like he does. He was made to bleed to break..." Ricky's head is pounding and he can't walk a straight line when he parts ways with Guy.

He doesn't remember trading contact information, but the next day Guy's number is in his phone and he has a cryptic message he doesn't know how to respond to.

He doesn't just get told to grab Allin and wind up kidnapping the punk. That would be ridiculous. He does, however, get paid an awful lot of money to drop off packages at retail centers, packages full of shirts and armbands and hats and pins and stickers and... toy pandas.

He feels a little ill when he makes the connection that no one has seen Sammy Guevara in a while and suddenly sales are through the roof.

He makes a call, asks Guy personally if he knew anything.

And that is another mistake.

Because Guy doesn't tell Starks anything. Instead, Guy _shows_ him.

"Welcome to Bear Country, population one," Guy chuckles like he thinks it's funny, but Ricky's eyes are glued to the sight of his alleged friend, battered, bruised, still bleeding, and unconscious.

"You should... You should let him go," Ricky says, and maybe he has a conscience after all.

Guy waves him off. "It's business," he says simply. "He wanted fame and profit, and he's getting it. I'll let him go soon."

Ricky's uncomfortable at first, but the more he stares... the more he kind of gets it. Seeing someone so formidable reduced to such a degree, it has its appeal. But he's not ready to admit it. At least not until-

"And I've made arrangements for your little skateboard freak to be picked up next," Guy's words come so casual, but they are equally -if not more- earth shattering.

It's like a lion's roar in Ricky's ears. His heart stops, his breath hitches, and he doesn't know if he should be horrified or intrigued. What comes out of his mouth surprises even himself when he says: "Let me do it."

To think, he was getting paid for this as well when he didn't even need the money. But a flash of all those zeroes, and he'd have been crazy to turn it down. It was going to happen whether he was there or not.

Might as well capitalize.

Whether the snap decision was for his own gain or some strange attempt at protecting Darby from something or someone worse, it's hard to say.

And if he gets a little enjoyment out of it, who is he to complain?

-

Presently, things had come to an uneasy settlement.

Brian steadfastly refused to offer any more hands-on help in the matter, but Ricky was still his friend and partner, and he wouldn't outright abandon him. Starks was on his own in escorting Allin into a rundown mill. Once all three were inside the dank and gloomy building, things came to a perpetual standstill.

Darby's settled in a corner, back pressed to the cold, grimy wall. He'd managed to drop his taped wrists low enough to slide them beneath his ass, under his legs and maneuver so that they rested more comfortably in front of him instead of behind. Hands in his lap, he made the occasional attempt to loosen the tape, but he'd admittedly run out of steam. It was late, and he'd had a full day prior, and then there was the rush of events when he was ambushed and essentially kidnapped. When he finally came to the conclusion that he wasn't in a position to make headway on escape, he was disappointed and a little mad but those feelings slipped into apathy fairly fast.

He just had to be patient, lie low until an opportunity presented itself.

The words _'Stay down,'_ enter his mind, and they sound like Jon Moxley.

Once his mind centers around Mox, the world melts away and he thinks about big arms grabbing, holding, pinning, choking. In the ring... and out. There's nothing sweet or tender about it, but it becomes addictive before either of them even know what they're doing. It had started after a match, both of them being fairly banged up, and they should have called it a night and went their separate ways. They didn't. Instead, Darby impulsively took a cheap shot at Mox, but the counter that came was swift and vengeful, and without any warning, the two fell into a rhythmic trade of maneuvers that ended with Darby pinned and Mox staring down at him. Both were too tired to be logical. Both needed a shower and some sleep.

Both were too wound up to do anything remotely close to common sense.

Darby had reached a hand up, slow, careful, like touching a wounded animal, and his hand made contact with Jon's face, thumb grazing his cheek and scraping off dried paint.

The look that came over Mox was sinfully warm, like hot cider on a cold day, but it quickly morphed into alarm and then annoyance. "Kid, you're barking up the wrong tree here."

Darby's whole self was drained and tired, fatigue and pain warring over dominance. "I'm not barking, asshole," he muttered, and it was meant to come out harsh but he just sounds exhausted.

Jon hadn't called him out on it, just got up and extended a hand to offer help.

Darby considered declining, saying something snide and cruel to get his point across: he didn't need anyone. But he moved the slightest bit with the intent to get up on his own and something popped uncomfortably, bad enough to take his breath and give him pause. It only took a few seconds after that to accept the hand and be pulled to his feet.

From then, there were late night hookups that start as something meaningless but evolve into something unnamed and addictive, bittersweet poison, a cocktail of uneasy glances and unsure touches that grow bolder with each precious moment of exploration. Before long, he's pressed against the tiles of a shower stall, paint running down the drain and slick skin sliding over his own.

He's felt half dead for so long; he imagines this is what living feels like. The sharp gasp of musty, steamy air, the wet slide and slap of skin-on-skin...

Mox is a violent ride that Allin never expected and doesn't want to get off of.

Those bizarrely fond memories and heated moments have a faint flush lighting Darby's cheeks despite Cage and Starks being mere feet away.

He misses Mox with an intensity that starts off dull but rises in scale with the dawning of reality. And it's that much more unsettling to recall that he was supposed to meet up with the champ after he'd gone out to get his skateboarding fix. That was the plan. And one good thing about not being able to keep those plans is, he's sure Moxley would pick up right away that something was wrong; help would be on the way, and Ricky would be a dead man- or a sorry one, at the very least.

The blonde tries to keep his thoughts on Jon. Because Cage and Starks piss him off but he's not in a position to put them in their place. And because he doesn't want to focus on where he is at the moment. It's an old feed mill that hasn't been in use for some time. There's busted up cruddy equipment for processing grains and cleaning seeds, and it smells like old rusty metal, cedar, and mold. The cold atmosphere of splintered wood and concrete look and feel hauntingly familiar, and if he thinks too hard on it, it's almost like he's back in the slums of Seattle where he lived alone, squatting in that warehouse, lulled to sleep by shouts, screams, and gunshots.

He had promised himself, _never again_.

Once he got out, he was never going back.

But here he finds himself.

And he hates it.

It's more nerves than an escape attempt when he twists his hands and digs his nails between the seams of tape. And it's more surprise than relief when a tightly wound piece of tape slides marginally and he's able to coax one of his wrists into a full-rotation and more of that tape peels back. He's got a loose end started. He keeps his hands close so the loose tape isn't too noticeable, and he carefully turns his wrists and tucks his fingers.

It takes time.

Minutes.

But one of his wrists slips free of the tape and there's a dark purple mark where the tape dug in and his fingers are chilled and discolored, and he honestly couldn't give a fuck that he's lost feeling in them. They still move, still do what they're supposed to when he focuses on them. The rest of the tape comes off and he's had enough. He's taken on the Inner Circle by himself, he can get through Starks and Cage too.

Brian and Ricky are having a hushed argument over ethics when Darby gets his chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's likely unfavorably and controversial, but I can see Ricky being power-obsessed and thrill seeking. He already has a superiority complex, so it could fit.


	5. Piece of ARTWORK

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys like this one. It's almost 2am, and I'm a little proud. First ever attempt at Allin.


	6. Stipulations, Probably

Come what may- as they say.

Ricky's trying to explain himself away, to get Brian to come around because there's a very real risk of losing a partner and friend. "Maybe that's why I need you, to keep me from going too far..." and some part of him means what he says, but another is too hooked to put any real stock into slowing things down. It's an internal battle that he doesn't like to dwell on. He needs- craves- lusts after this addictive element, the brutality and the euphoria.

If only Brian Cage could understand.

It's a breath of fresh air after being underwater too long. It's a chilled thirst-quenching drink after a hard workout. It's a little bit of everything, and he gets it by pushing himself on others, breeding and re-breeding and going as far as inbreeding his own superiority. He needs the flash and recognition. And he needs to be on top, all the time. Second best does not -will not- suffice. And if Allin's involved...

...somehow, it's even better.

Ricky's heart beats so hard that his chest feels a little sore on the inside, but it's a good hurt. And he wants more of it.

It's surprising and unexpected when a hit comes at him from the side, a blurry human shape with a fist that pistons and a leg that hooks around one of Ricky's own. The leg-hook gets Ricky off balance and he falls with a slighter body on top, and the hits keep coming.

Darby has a second wind and he's putting all he has into this. He slams a hard headbutt that clips Ricky in the nose and mouth and splits his lip. The tiny bit of blood feels like success, like he's just lobbed off one head of a Hydra.

Had Darby taken the chance to simply run, he'd be chased down. He's not stupid or vain enough to think he'd get away cleanly. This was his only option. Full-frontal. All or nothing, the only way he knows to live.

It's relieving, on a scale far grander than can be measured by man, that Cage stands back and doesn't lift a finger to throw Allin off or to help Starks.

Ricky struggles, gets his hands up and blocks a couple hits, and Darby cuts in with a sharp elbow and pushes all his weight down to limit his opponent's range of movement. It seems to work until Starks snags one of Allin's hands in a punishing grip.

Due to the circulation newly returning after getting out of the tape, the grip interrupts and alters the bloodflow and has cruel tingling pain shooting from forearm to fingertip, and for a brief moment that electric sting is all the skater can focus on.

And that one moment is all it takes for Ricky to turn the tables and flip Allin so that he's on top and the blonde is beneath him. He's still got a hold on that hand, squeezing, then pulling it behind Darby's back until the arm threatens to dislocate.

Allin's eyes go wide and he scrambles in an attempt to free himself, but the more he moves the more his arm hurts. He grits his teeth and tries to prepare for it to pop out of socket.

_But he's not ready and it's going to hurt and fuck Ricky for this bullshit._

"You're a real piece of shit, Allin," Ricky hisses, but he doesn't mean it. Not really. His own mind corrects his damnation with: _art. You're a real piece of art._ But he won't say it. Won't praise the blood smears and bruises, won't worship that pale mottled flesh like it deserves. What right does he have to say nice things when he's the monster ripping into the elusive ethereal being beneath him?

A godslayer does not seek redemption.

Darby bites his lip to keep from vocalizing his pain; it's the least he can do from his position. Because Starks doesn't deserve the satisfaction. "What's the matter, Dicky? Mommy not love you enough? Or maybe daddy loved you too much?" It's a cheap ploy and there's no real heat to it, but he's trying to get a reaction. Any kind of upset for Ricky will potentially increase Darby's odds. He gets lucky and just barely manages to wrench his hand free, and then it's a flurry of motion as the two come to a trade of punches, elbows, grabs, and position exchanges.

The chemistry between their jabs and kicks coupled with the constant press of their bodies on one another...

It's all contact, all the time until Starks ends up on top with his knees pressing into Allin's chest and it takes very little effort to slide his knee into Darby's throat, pushing while the skater's actions go from anger and determination to frantic and feral.

Allin can't breathe. There's too much weight sitting on his larynx. He grabs and then claws at Ricky but can't seem to throw the other wrestler off. There's a moment of wondering if he's going to die in such a pathetic way, and he refuses to accept that as a possibility. But his options are limited. He tries to play opossum, pretend to fall unconscious so that Starks will back the fuck off.

It doesn't work.

As Allin lets his hands slowly drop and closes his eyes, Ricky refuses to let up. The pressure of knee-on-throat increases to a punishing extent, and Darby really does pass out from a lack of oxygen before his assailant backs off, and even then, he only does so because Brian Cage is grabbing him by the arm and yanking.

"You're going to kill him, Ricky," Cage looks and sounds sincere with his concern. "Take it down a notch, or ten."

Ricky's panting and there's a sheen of sweat on his exposed skin. He looks at Cage, opens his mouth to explain himself, but he's not sure what to say. It doesn't help matters that he's pitching a tent and can't even be bothered to feign shame over it. "I don't want to kill him," Ricky finds himself saying, and he means that much.

"He's going to need a doctor," Brian insists logically.

And Ricky hates how reasonable his friend is. Because Allin can't go to a doctor, or anywhere public. There's no way Ricky wouldn't be turned in to the authorities for assault and battery and kidnapping and whatever other charges could be thrown at him. And then there's the fact that he's supposed to hand Darby off to Guy the following day, which is something he decidedly doesn't want to do.

"Help me, Brian-" Ricky tries to ask, but opts to rephrase his plea when Cage is quite openly ready to deny him- "No, don't help me. Help Allin. Okay? Just tonight. We clean him up and hold him overnight. And we'll figure things out tomorrow." He pauses and juts his bottom lip out, essentially pouting. "Please?"

Cage is as uneasy as he is pissed off at being dragged into this madness; on top of that, he's disappointed in his friend. One glance at the unconscious punk skater, and he decides he might as well do something to help out. "Fine..." He gestures vaguely to Ricky's lower extremities and adds: "but keep that put away. None of your Stroke Daddy bullshit."

Ricky doesn't retort. He'll take what he can get, and right now he has Allin, and Brian hasn't outright left him.

-

They wind up in a no-tell motel, where the rooms are cheap and seedy and rented by the hour, the walls are too thin, and there are almost no occupants.

They aren't questioned when they pay for the night, grab a room key, and carry Darby in.

On the dirty, stained up bedsheets, Allin is mostly still save for the occasional twitch or wheeze.

It's a [stark] contrast to his prior behavior when Ricky sits at the edge of the bed with a damp cloth and wipes away dried blood from the other wrestler. His touch is light and each glide of the cloth is almost tender.

Cage remains by the door, almost guarding it. "You need help, Ricky. This..." he gestures, "it isn't something you should be okay with. It isn't just a few hits and bumps in the ring."

If Ricky hears Brian, he doesn't give any indication. He cleans up a fair amount of blood until his damp cloth is red-pink and less than useful. Then he casts it aside and stares at Darby studiously. "Bri', have you ever wanted something, and someone told you _no_?"

Brian scoffs and crosses his arms. He doesn't answer right away, but when he does, he says: "Yes. And I suck it up and accept it because I am not a whiny bitch."

"Brian... I get what I want. And if not, I work for it until I do." He pauses, then confesses, "I don't settle for no. I don't settle for second best. Absolute Ricky Starks-"

"Will you shut up already?" these words come soft and sore, squeezed through a bruised larynx, but they are firm and agitated all the same. So undeniably Allin. He's busted up and smart enough to know that he can't keep throwing himself into trouble, at least not with his current odds. He needs to recuperate. "Let me sleep. Feed me in the morning. And if I get loose, I'm free to go... straight to the damn police. But if you hold me for... 48 hours, I'll cut you some slack."

And Darby half means it.

But only because he knows, without a doubt, that Mox won't let this go.

There'll be a grave dug before Starks even knows he has a target painted on him.

And Allin's going to flip his board off of that tombstone.

Probably.


	7. Natural Disaster

It's hardly fair to call Darby Allin a kid; he's been through shit and come out the other side, kicking and clawing and screaming- but living. What's more, is the fact that he never lost that drive, that passion, and that will to live. From shit storm to undertow, he resurfaces with the strength writers in the entertainment industry can only hope to describe. He is the human embodiment of a hurricane, with all that rage and strength tucked into a neat little package.

Allin's been through enough, weathered but never withered. He has experience beyond his years and has more than earned the acknowledgement of adulthood.

So, maybe it's not that he's a kid, rather that Jon Moxley feels old in comparison. The spread between their years is not a large leap, but it is a seven year difference, and Jon's body has taken its own beatings and life itself has thrown him in the gutter to be forgotten time and again. But like a cockroach that won't die, he also has pulled himself up by his bootstraps and reminded the world what he can take on and what he can dish out in turn.

The way he and Darby fell into rhythm with one another, there must have been something cosmic at work because Jon had been a loner, too used to being alone to even consider anything else. And Darby- the kid had given up on humanity long before he had to worry about how cutthroat the industry could be.

So, them coming together like they had, Moxley just remembers steady breathing and tired eyes and the kid having the balls to call him an asshole. Just thinking about it makes him smile.

Except now.

Because something else about the kid- and it's a fact he's learned and always been fond of- Darby Allin is a punctual little... punk. Jokes and expectations aside, he's never been late unless it was intentional or some external force impeded. If he's not there with perfect timing then he's there early.

It's with a misty level of warmth that he recalls the first time he'd invited Darby to go with him. It was nothing intimate, nothing remotely worthy of classifying as a move towards a relationship.

Mox likes to go for a run in the early mornings and finish by the time the sun comes up. He doesn't do it all the time, but it's a good way to start the day. It's with entirely too much thought- or maybe just enough?- that he wound up telling the younger wrestler: "I run early. Do you wanna go?" He didn't let the other man answer before he cut back in with "I'm not asking or expecting anything, so don't go making it into some dumb shit. I'm saying I run in the morning. If you're there, maybe you run too."

When morning came, the sky still black and starry with the remnants of night's veil, Jon hit the trail with his boots laced tight and double-knotted, and upon arrival he was pleasantly surprised to find Allin already there, hood drawn up and hands in his pockets; his nose and cheeks were dusted pink from the chill, and it looked like he'd been there a while.

"Ready to run, kid?"

Darby's answer was a shrug and a shift in his stance, hands leaving his pockets and a knee bending forward like he was ready to shoot off and go.

"It's not a race," Jon said with an air of amusement. Because the kid was too much sometimes, always amping things up when he could. "Four laps around the trail, finish up and meet at my room."

When they start off, Jon is pacing himself because it's about endurance rather than speed, but Darby shoots off like he's trying to beak a record for high school track and field. Jon doesn't complain; he doesn't care how the younger man chooses to run, and it's not like the view from behind is a harsh one.

Those legs are long and slim, almost feminine. If Moxley hadn't known firsthand the power behind them, he'd underestimate the kid by looks alone.

Those long limbs, slender and firm, clothed in material that was damn near form fitting... It's a look worthy of a magazine cover.

Not that Jon would read it. It's just an observation.

Jon catches up as Darby's hype tamps a little and he slows, and for the majority of the run, they keep pace, side by side.

When they finish, Mox is breathing harshly through his nose and wiping sweat from his eyes and Allin is doubling over with his hands on his knees and heavy breaths coming from his mouth.

It's endearing.

"Nice run," Jon says simply, and those little words are enough to pinken the blonde's face, and it's a marvelous look under the first rays of sun as the sky bleeds into oranges and blues and yellows.

When Darby catches his breath and pulls himself together, he adopts his usual deadpan expression, trying to play it off like he wasn't just embarrassed by a compliment. "Yeah, well, I usually skate."

Jon knows Allin skates. Anyone who's so much as looked at him knows. More than an aesthetic or gimmick, it's a core part of his lifestyle, and it's visible in the way he carries himself.

Not sure what exactly to say, Mox almost says nothing, almost keeps his mouth shut. Almost, almost, almost. But what comes out is: "I'm not a complete disaster on rollerskates." And he feels truly dumb for a moment.

And then Darby laughs, sudden and outright, mouth open and eyes wide, finger pointing- and it's such an honest and genuine bout of unexpected merriment that Jon is glad for the dumbass remark.

He likes the way the kid looks and sounds when he finds something truly funny. That little explosion of happiness.

It starts a chain reaction; something awakens and stirs, and it takes zero brainpower to understand it. There's the birth of an undeniable fact.

That Moxley wants to do more than just have Allin's back in the ring.

And it doesn't take long at all for their relationship to grow and evolve into something heated. It's slow and awkward at first, neither of them used to feeling or putting their hands on another man. But the awkward stage fades with trial and error and ease.

So it stands, they spend a fair amount of time together.

...And they were going to celebrate the increased sales in Darby's coffin boards. They were going to meet up around 8 (probably 7:40, if Darby's usual tendencies rear and everything falls in his favor) and watch a slasher film together. Mox had gone out of the way to dispose of his beer and acquire sparkling cider instead- because he doesn't want to drink around the kid. Sure, Darby insisted it was fine, but Mox feels obligated to take that extra step and go that extra mile. His hotel room is one of the cheaper ones, but it has all the necessities and he hasn't seen any signs of infestation. So, it must be good enough.

He watches the clock with personal discretion like a kid trying to sneak a peek at Santa.

7:40 rolls around and he pours two glasses of sparkling cider, sits at an old wooden table with a stack of dvds in front of him, and he waits.

7:45, and he's a little antsy. His fingers get twitchy and he balls his hands into fists to stop the nervous fidgeting.

7:50, he's tempted to wait outside.

7:55, cutting it close. Any minute now. He takes a drink of his cider and his face scrunches up. A bitter taste with none of the benefits alcohol would have provided. But it's worth it. Darby is worth it.

8:00 comes, and Mox is out of his chair, grabbing his phone, and looking for missed calls or messages.

There's nothing.

He reclaims his seat and stares at his phone, waiting.

The clock ticks away.

9 o'clock.

10...

He gives in and calls. He doesn't like texting.

He doesn't get an answer.

By 10:30, he's left a rather vindictive note, calling Allin an asshole for making him worry- in case the kid shows up- and he's out on a personal search, hitting up all the areas he knows Darby frequents.

It's 2am when he returns to his room... with a backpack containing a camera and a tripod and a phone and a familiar ripped up jacket.

These are Darby Allin's things.

But these things are not Darby Allin.

A spark is struck internal. It starts as a flame but spreads like wildfire.

If anything happens to that kid, Mox is more than willing to go to war.


	8. Commando

It's a quiet sort of madness that hums under Ricky's skin as he watches Allin sleep. Perhaps it's a little creepy and a lot perverse, but after all he's done, this level of invasion seems minimal. As entertaining as it is to watch Darby simply breathe while his eyes roll beneath his lids in a REM state of sleep, it isn't quite enough to keep Starks amused.

Cage is out, hopefully not squealing on him, presumably getting supplies to make Allin's stay more comfortable.

Ricky gets an idea and acts on it because no one is there to tell him not to, and he probably wouldn't listen anyway if they had. He pulls up a camera app on his phone, makes sure the flash is off and takes a picture of his own personal Sleeping Beauty. Just like he looks good on tv and in the ring, Allin photographs well too. Ricky almost closes the app, almost texts Brian to ask how long he'll be, almost puts his phone down- but he follows through with none of those actions; instead, he kneels down at Allin's bedside, swipes for the option of using the selfie cam, leans close to the blonde, sends it a side glance and a smirk and takes a picture. He sits on the corner of the bed, slow and easy- an honest effort not to wake his abductee- and thumbs to his gallery to look at the newest photo.

Even with the shitty lighting in the room, it looks good. Their contrasting skin tones, his cocky expression with Allin's sleepy-calm.

He knows he should delete the photos; if anyone got their hands on his phone it would be incriminating. But he likes them, wants to keep them, preserve them... He's not sure how long he'll have Darby. Realistically, he knows he in for a lot of trouble when this is all said and done. It's just a matter of what and when and how hard. There's the instinct of dragging this out for as long as he can, and then there's the notion of putting a quick stop to it all and hoping it blows over with slighter repercussions.

Ricky's still admiring the photos on his phone when Allin moves, bends and stretches his legs out, pulls an arm up and slips it under his head for added comfort that the worn pillows are not providing. His eyes open, and they catch the light magnificently. "Hey," he says the word, and it sounds like it hurts.

Starks is reminded by that soft voice that he probably didn't need to push his knee into the skater's throat- or, at least not as hard as he had. "Hey," he answers back. He hadn't planned for talking, figured Allin would be pissed off and silent.

"Do I at least get to hear some villainous speech?" As he forces the words through his bruised larynx, Darby digs his palms into the mattress and pulls himself up into a sitting position.

Ricky looks at him like he's grown a second had. "I don't have a speech prepared-"

"Pretend it's a promo. From heel wrestler to unlawful wrongdoer."

Starks takes a moment, really thinks on it. Allin probably deserves an explanation. But where to start? How much information is too much? "I think it's your fault..." are the words that come out of his mouth.

It's Darby's turn to look confused and surprised, then pissed. "The fuck did you say? My fault that _you_ jumped me, beat me, kidnapped me-"

"You like it," Ricky cuts in. The sharpness of his tone and the certainty behind his delivery gives both himself and Allin pause. "You... You like it. The pain, the beating, the recklessness and the danger. You take jumps off of 40 foot balconies and even higher bridges. You put yourself and your body at phenomenal risk-"

"Do you try to kidnap everyone who takes a few falls, Dicky?"

Ricky shakes his head, doesn't know how to explain himself. And it pisses him off a little. And then a lot. His world has always been so black and white, and he doesn't know... He doesn't understand what it is about himself or Darby that makes him do impulsive things. And then there's the matter of his run-in with Guy.

And that only makes Ricky's blood boil more hotly because he's faced with the reminder that he's expected to give Darby up. And he doesn't want to. His teeth are clenched and the veins along his temple are visibly pulsing with stress when a pale hand is placed on his shoulder.

Darby fuckin' Allin, of all people, offering comfort to his captor.

Ricky hates it almost as much as he appreciates it. Ultimately, he shrugs the hand off. He's not ready for that right now. Not when his mind is warring with itself.

"Don't be nice to me after I kidnapped you. How dumb can you be, Allin?"

Darby shrugs, hand withdrawn. He scoots to the far side of the bed, away from Starks. "What the fuck ever, man." His legs slip over the side and he gets up, is courteous enough to fix the blankets over the bed so they appear less unkempt.

"Alright, so I made a bold move and I messed up a little, but what was I supposed to do?" Ricky's voice is pitched low with regret and it sounds so foreign coming from him.

Darby's standing, stretching his slender limbs, arching and popping his back; he rubs at his wrists and one of those crack too; he figures arthritis is due fairly soon. He then takes a few slow steps towards the door, his feet dragging and scuffing along the floor.

"If I hadn't come and picked you up...-" Ricky rubs a hand along the back of his neck and huffs out a humorless laugh, "someone else was going to do it, and they would have been a lot less nice about it."

Those words have the skater stopping, freezing, halting, fingers on the doorknob and the door already unlocked. He's so close to just leaving and making a break for it.

He could just go, right then and there...

Ricky's eyes are angled downwards, not looking anywhere near Allin. "This guy," he adds, and he's not sure if he's talking to Darby or if he's just talking out loud to get his thoughts together, "I'm pretty sure he's the reason Sam's missing, and-"

"Sam, as in Sammy Guevara?" Darby's interest is suddenly piqued and his hand slips off the knob and he takes a step back towards Starks.

Ricky waves off Darby's interest because that's not the point he's trying to drive in. "This guy, he's bad news. And if I hadn't come to get you, things could have been so much worse..."

Darby doubts that. His eyes still hurt when he blinks, courtesy of that tape job. His arm is sore from nearly being dislocated, and he's pretty sure he looks like the a peeled banana that is over-ripe and bruised. On top of that, he's hungry. He hadn't eaten much the day before because he'd been busy and the evening was a complete shit show.

"You know where Guevara is?" Allin has to ask. It's a big deal everywhere. "Why don't you go to the police or tell someone, or-"

The disgusted face Ricky turns his way shuts Darby up. "There are some things you don't fuck with, Allin. When someone has those kinds of connections-"

" _You_ have those kinds of connections, Starks."

"-you don't put your nose where it doesn't belong."

Their conversation ceases when the door opens and Brian Cage steps in carrying bags. "I got food, clean clothes, ice packs-" He steps further into the room; his hands are too full to worry over shutting the door right away.

Darby pats Cage on the arm as a gesture of thanks and then bypasses him in favor of walking... right out the door. Casual, easy, undeterred...

Cage sets his bags down and Ricky punches Brian hard in the same arm that Darby had just patted. "You let him go-!" And with that Ricky bolts out the door, hot on Darby's heels, and Brian is left standing there, confused and put off.

Ricky comes back with Darby tucked under his arm in an effective headlock. He releases Allin once they are back inside the room and the door is not only shut but locked as well. "There has to be a better way to do this," Ricky mutters. Chasing Darby shouldn't be a full time job...

"I thought I was being reasonable," Allin's voice picks up a little snark. "I could be running and screaming, yelling for help, shouting rape-" he nods in Ricky's direction."Don't think I haven't noticed the boners. I could make this hell for you."

Ricky hadn't even considered that. And it's true. Darby could be screaming like a banshee and continuing to put up a very physical fight. But he's been... almost agreeable.

"So, why haven't you?" It's Brian who asks, and the big guy looks sincere with his curiosity. "Sure, Ricky will kick your ass, but-"

Darby doesn't answer. Because he should be putting more effort into getting away. Things could easily get worse, and so many things are already wrong. Maybe he's curious, or maybe he's crazy. Maybe he doesn't want Ricky to try to snap his arm again. Or maybe it's something unnameable. He approaches and digs through one of the bags that Brian had carried in, pulls out a grey sweater- "Not wearing," and socks "too thick; I don't like thick socks," and sweatpants "No thank you" a bag of flavored Rice Crisps "Nope... No clean underwea- I don't trust your dick enough to go commando in sweats, asshole."

Ricky looks at Brian with crossed arms and a raised brow. "You bought him clothes... and no underwear?"

"Boxers or briefs, it's a big question, and I didn't want to buy both- you're paying me back, by the way."

Darby sighs, exasperated, and pulls open the bag of Rice Crisps, eats one... and it sucks. Well, not entirely. The taste and texture are good, nice crunch, but the nutritional value is low, and he actually cares what he puts in his body. "I'm going to need real food, not this garbage."

Both Starks and Cage turn sour looks to Allin, like he's being ungrateful and bratty, and maybe he is.

But Darby doesn't have to worry about manners right then. If he wants to give them a hard time, he will.

Cage is about ready to say something, because he didn't have to do anything nice and he _tried_ -

-but then Allin is setting the bag of Rice Crisps aside, turning away from the other wrestlers, and pulling off his shirt. There's a hitch in his otherwise smooth motions when his sore arm reaches a certain height and angle, but the shirt comes off easy enough and there are a number of deep bruises marring the newly exposed flesh.

Cage has the decency to look away.

Ricky swallows hard, eyes glued. Because he did that. All of it. And it's... breathtaking.

Allin feels ridiculous when he pulls on the grey sweater, but at least it isn't dirty or bloodstained, so it's a marginal improvement. He openly cringes when he looks down and sees Garfield and the _I Hate Mondays_ quote on the front. Darby has to kneel down, untie and remove his shoes, in order to get his pants off. They come off and his legs are unearthly pale with only a few bruises; they look nearly flawless barring old healed and faded scars.

Ricky bites his lip at the sight because it's not something he sees often, not even in the ring. Allin's legs are always covered... and now he's kind of glad for that because there's no way he'd be able to keep focused on a match if he got a glimpse at those things.

There's a moment when Allin just stands, there, hands hovering waist-level with the unspoken question of dirty underwear or no underwear. He shifts uncomfortably, then his thumbs hook in the waistband of his briefs and pull...

"Bathroom is right there. He could have used the bathroom," Cage insists, keeping his eyes averted.

Ricky ignores him, still watching as Darby exposes his backside, and he even catches some sideview.

Allin's pretty like a living doll.

And then, just like that and entirely too quick, the sweatpants are pulled on. It's not a show. He wasn't going for allure; he just didn't want to sit around in his own bloodied clothes all day. "What now? Throw me in a hole and tell me to put on some lotion? Slice me up and make a skin suit?"

Ricky doesn't respond to that. He does, however, look deeply troubled when his phone chimes in with a notification, and he checks and- "Allin... I'm... uh, I'm sorry."

Darby frowns at that. Because Ricky should be sorry, but he has the impression the reasoning is different.

"I have to hand you over in twenty minutes."


	9. Bad for Business

Taking shit from Starks, dealing with the guy's ego, perverse nature, and unmasked obsession, Darby could put up with that. It sucked, there was pain and a fair amount of humiliation that could come from it, but at the end of the day, Starks wasn't a lethal entity. Dangerous, yes. Unstable, for certain. But deadly? Not likely.

Cage was another story. A solid mass of muscle. A machine. But, he is an _organic_ machine with a rational and functional brain, and Darby saw that as something of a fail-safe. Brian Cage became a backup option in case things got out of hand. It wasn't an alliance, per se, but it was close enough. Cage made it clear that he wasn't on board with openly harming the skater for Ricky's gain beyond the show they put forth in front of cameras.

Cameras mean an audience and boundaries and a number of precautions that fail to exist beyond the safety net of the lens.

Cameras are an insurance and a means of exploitation.

But forget cameras; there are none.

And forget stories when his own is unscripted. A different book from a different series in a whole other language... The fact that Darby was supposed to be just handed over to some asshole, not knowing this person, their motives, their drive, their limits... there's too many possibilities. As the saying goes: _"Better the devil you know than the one you don't."_ He was willing to work around Starks, figure out what his deal was and get out on his own terms. But with some stranger who apparently makes a habit of this shit? Not a chance.

He gets the too-thick clean socks on and has to adjust the laces on his shoes to accommodate it, but the shoes come on, knotted tight with the loose ends tucked in. He suddenly regrets the no-underwear decision, but poor hygiene leads to itching and odor, rashes, and- he's done that before. He's not some slum rat anymore. He doesn't want to think about the feeling of bugs crawling on his skin, cold seeping through his clothes, dirt as much part of his skin and scalp as hair follicles. He's better than that. He's beyond that. He's a new animal, and he's better for it.

He's clean in all the understated ways that matter.

And he's _not_ being handed off like property.

"What are the odds that I don't get gifted to some sociopath that deals in human trafficking?"

Ricky hadn't thought this through. But his gears are turning now. "Absolute Ricky St-"

"Cut the Absolute Starks and Stroke Daddy lines and answer me," Darby's not playing games. He can only guess what kind of trouble he's in for if he doesn't opt out now.

"I'll hand you over..." Ricky pushes the idea, but only because he thinks he's onto something.

"Ricky..." Brian's there with a protest ready. If he has to fold Ricky in half to prevent something horrible from happening, he'll do it.

"I'll hand you over. With rules. For a day or so-"

"No-" Allin isn't having it.

"-because I'm in trouble here too, numbskull-"

"Not my problem, Dicky."

And Ricky is in trouble; they all are, now that he thinks on it. He's landed himself in deep, and he hadn't planned or prepared. There was no initial intent. But this guy- untraceable and known by the generic monicker _Guy_ \- has Ricky's contact information and probably more, Sammy Guevara essentially drugged, injured, and held hostage, and newly set his sights on Allin. If Ricky backs out, it's anyone's guess just how many people are going to be forced to deal with backlash. 

"Hear me out, Allin! Dammit!" It's reflexive when he throws his arm out and lands a would-be hard smack; the blow is cushioned by the sweater material and the sting is more annoying than hurtful. Ricky tries to explain his piece. "You go, then I'll get you out... With help. I'll even turn myself in if I have to. That fair?" The tendons along Ricky's throat are pulled tight with stress and he's really hoping things work out. He means what he says, this time. He doesn't want someone else getting their hands on Allin, the mere thought has his insides gnawing at themselves like a rabid cretin. While he doesn't want to face the inevitable outcome, he has to accept it as a possibility; he has to run with it and propose a counter shift in dynamics.

Allin looks uncomfortable, face pinched into a grimace, and it isn't just because of the clothes or his growling stomach. He doesn't like anything about this situation, but he's got to do something; he has to be able to take some form of control over the matter. "No more tape?" he dares ask. He really doesn't want that experience again. "No more trunk rides?" It's a weak set of requests, but they feel important. The tape was awful and he's still banged up from jumping out of the trunk. Can't have another repeat of that so soon, and he doesn't trust himself not to attempt such an escape again.

Ricky's reply comes swift and with little thought, a strange and eager honesty: "I'll treat you like a princess. Precious cargo, Absolute. Darby Baby, gettin' that royal treatment."

The readiness and delivery of such a cheesy line has Darby turning away to hide the faint blush that mars his cheeks. It's so embarrassing, so stupid. But not wholly terrible. "Stroke Daddy gonna give me a ride?" He tries for a cheeky comeback, then quickly corrects himself by adding- " _CAR_. Ride in a car. Not...-Not...-" he gives up and shuts his mouth. There's a reason he doesn't usually talk so much.

The expression on Ricky's face is one of shock and elation. "Let Daddy give you a ride, then."

"My car," Cage cuts in, "I'm driving."

"Shotgun," Allin calls dibs with a shyly raised hand. He'd rather sit up front with The Machine Brian Cage.

The three work together to pack up the few belongings present and then get in Brian's car, Allin up front and repetitively rolling the window up and down with the little automated lever.

Starks is in the back, snacking on the remaining Rice Crisps. "While you're there, keep an eye on Sam, okay?" and he means it. He and Guevara aren't close, but he likes to think of the Spanish Fraud as something of a friend. When they're together, they're typically on good terms, and he sort of misses the loudmouth.

Darby doesn't answer aloud, but he plans to.

Cage is quiet as he puts the car in drive and heads to the designated drop off point by the old feed mill. It looks like they're going to be late and that makes him a little anxious. His mind echoes the fact that he needs better friends. But he probably has to _be_ a better friend in order to deserve that.

They pull up along the old dirt road that had been empty the night before; now there are three black cars out front, one of which has tinted windows. A group of no less than eight people stand about, loitering, talking. One of which Ricky recognizes as Guy, and he's checking his watch and looking miffed at having to wait.

_Impatient bastard._

"Shit..." Darby's more than a little surprised. It looks like a scene from a movie, and movies like that never end well. Usually there's a body left in a ditch or mailed to loved ones in increments. He drops his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes. "You get yourself involved in some stupid shit, Starks."

Ricky doesn't reply to that, but he internally agrees with Allin.

Brian idles the car, glances at Ricky through the rear-view mirror. "Last chance, Ricky. We can leave right now. This doesn't have to happen..."

 _But it does_...

As Guy approaches the car he's flanked by three men, one of which is armed.

Ricky opens the car door and slips out to greet Guy and make sure things go alright. Plus, he wants to ensure Darby's safety, and maybe he can talk things down. Maybe... "I don't want-" Ricky _tries_. He really does.

But Guy completely ignores him and wrenches the passenger's side door out, making a grab for Allin.

Ricky instinctively intervenes but is stopped by a thug armed with a pipe.

_Cliche asshole._

Allin throws himself out of the vehicle and his forehead solidly connects with Guy's nose.

Change in plans.

Darby wants nothing to do with these freaks. He doesn't get to make a break for it though because he's immediately grabbed by two thugs, one on either side of him. "Red Rover, Red Rover," he quips, and he feels pretty good about the line delivery. Maybe he's due for some written material on Dynamite. Then again, action speaks louder and he doesn't need to run his mouth to make an impression.

Guy's got his hand over his bloody nose, red seeping through his fingers. "Everyone goes for the nose," he says, and the words are thick due to blood clogging his nasal passages. He snaps his fingers and the guy with the pipe turns away from Starks and slams the pipe into the skater's midsection like he's hitting a homerun.

Allin folds as much as he can while being held up; his feet don't stay on the ground; he leans forward and tries to draw his knees up for some semblance of protection as another hit comes at him and catches his ribs. He arches and bucks and squirms, frantically trying to slip free before another strike comes.

Ricky's either enraged or emboldened, maybe both, but he shoves his way beyond Guy and makes a grab for that pipe before it can land again; his hand closes around it and he holds firm. "I don't want him hurt. He's... He's mine..." the words feel funny on his tongue, but if words have a taste then these ones taste rich like honey.

Guy calls his goons off with a vague hand gesture. "I'm invested," Guy says, and the way he talks, he makes it sound like he's doing everyone a favor. "You think it's easy to arrange this? To get good people-" he flicks his wrist towards his assortment of thugs- "willing to help transport groceries?"

Darby would be offended by the objectification if he wasn't still cringing in discomfort and pain.

"Grocery pickups require a special kind of discretion, and it isn't cheap. I'm putting money into this- these people expect to be paid- and afterwards, I am getting money back." The Rolex on that scumbag's wrist makes a little sense now, and it's sickening to think what the drive for wealth will do to a person's morals. "You can buy him back when I'm done." With that, Guy turns away and his lackeys follow with Darby Allin held tight between them.

Darby's feet drag through the dirt even when he tries to get them under himself more firmly. He clenches his teeth and vows then and there that he's taking all these assholes down the first chance he gets. And Dicky Starks better deliver on his promise... or else. A huff that might be an aborted laugh escapes when he lets his mind wander and he imagines Mox on a rampage.

Because all these fuckers deserve that wrath and more.

Allin is pulled from his thoughts by what Ricky says though.

"No." One word.

And everything freezes. Time stands still.

"No?" Guy turns back with the question. "You don't want your little freak back?"

Darby's mouth quirks into a little half-smirk at that. Because _freak_ might be the right word, but it's still a big step above what these guys are. He'll take it for what it is.

"No. I don't want him back if you're just going to drug and beat on him. I only want him if he remains intact." Ricky's decision and choice of words are a bold gamble. He hopes it's the right move, that maybe it keeps Darby out of harm's way of he's worth less as damaged goods.

Allin catches and focuses on just one part though. _Drugs._ His veins are flooded with ice and he doesn't want to consider that he might be forcibly drugged against his will. He can't handle that. Not just on a physical level, but on a mental one. He shakes his head, slow at first and then more firmly. That idea needs to be shut down immediately. "No drugs..." He's seen too many people lose themselves to addiction; he won't do the same. He can't. He flexes his tattooed fingers, the words _DRUG FREE_ shifting over his bony knuckles. The very idea wounds him far greater than any beatdown he's ever suffered, and he's had more than a few to compare.

Give him broken bones and spare him the painkillers. He doesn't need them.

"No drugs," he repeats, and turns his head as far as he can so he can make eye contact with Ricky. His eyes are wide and blue and beautiful, full of desperation. He's asking a lot and not enough at the same time.

Ricky is aware of Allin's boyscout ideals in terms of drugs and alcohol, but it hadn't really dawned on him just how severely the other wrestler felt about abstaining.

"Don't drug or beat him," Ricky tries to enforce. "How are you even going to profit from him? He doesn't-"

"People pay for the pretty ones," Guy says cryptically.

"I'll pay now," Starks insists. "Name your price-"

"You can't afford it, and quite frankly you're attitude is bad for business."

Allin is shoved across the backseat of the car with tinted windows and is joined by the thugs that carted him there.

Guy gets in front and slams the door.

Ricky can do little more than stand there like a helpless fool because there are still a total of four other guys present and he can't take them all.

Gradually they join each other in designated vehicles and are driving off with Starks left behind wondering what he's done and how to fix it. His head drops in uncharacteristic despair as he heads back to Brian's car, only to find Brian out of the car and holding his phone, fingers tapping like a high school kid making a love confession.

Ricky quirks a brow, opens his mouth to ask what Cage is doing...

Brian answers first. "Pictures. Of them and their license plates... Hope you're ready for redemption. It's... going to be quite a party." He looks a little smug as he flashes his phone in Ricky's direction.

Starks hopes it doesn't backfire.

The desire for Darby's safety outweighs his carnal lusting.


	10. All the Ins and Outs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING for assault, frottage, and a noncon handjob.  
> Bad/dangerous decisions.  
> You have been warned.

A thick grey sweater sleeve is rolled up to expose warm soft tattooed skin that shifts over bone and muscle when pressure is applied. Fingers caress, too gentle, and thumbs dig in. The hands are large and meaty in a way that almost reminds him of Jon's hands, with thick calloused pads and a self-assured touch... except Jon would never-

Darby squeezes his eyes shut, and it's an admittedly childish ploy but he's going for the _'If I can't see them, they can't see me'_ approach, hoping it makes this all go away; like, maybe if he waits long enough, when he opens his eyes things will be different. 

Seconds tick away, and nothing significant changes; except that a cold hollow feeling forms in his chest and begins to spread; he recognizes it as a chilling mix of dread and acceptance like that of man heading for the gallows.

He doesn't want to see... But shutting his eyes somehow makes it worse, because then he can't see what they're doing, and then he feels everything more acutely, and it makes his heart thump so hard that he's afraid it just might pound its way out of the wintry cavern that is his chest. It takes a little coercion, but he opens his eyes, tries to stay facing forward, to let his eyes unfocus enough that he doesn't have to see anything direct, but then the grabby thug is not just touching his arm but rolling up the hem of his sweater and touching his abdomen. His skin crawls and his abs reflexively twitch at the stimulation. The hand slips up higher, under the sweater and towards his obliques, and it lends that horrible tickle feeling that has him jerking away because he just can't stomach being touched like that.

But pulling away from one thug lands him nearly in the lap of the other.

He's still the in the backseat of the car with tinted windows, sandwiched between two meatheads, one of which is too handsy and the other that seems absolutely disgusted by him. The guy that's repulsed gives him a hard shove that sends him back to Mr Grabby, and then Mr Grabby is placing a hand high on Darby's thigh, and the warmth of that hand seeps straight through the material of the thin sweatpants and very explicitly reminds Allin that he isn't wearing underwear. This asshole's hand is just shy of touching his dick, and he wants none of that. He wills himself to remain still, lest he accidentally speed along the little bout of molestation.

Darby's expression towards being touched in such a way is a murderous one that speaks more volumes than any vocalized threat ever could. It helps him feel a little better though, when he does spit out a venomous line of: "Scummy assbags. Not even assholes- just bags of hole-less ass cheeks." It's more than a little lame, but he can't find it in himself to feel any wound to his pride over it. If anything, a spark of fierce determination is overriding his previous bout of acceptance.

He's never been one to lay down and take shit. He won't start now.

It's just a matter of time, and he's going for that second wind.

He waits, quiet and seething, poison burning in his veins and a growing threat in his eyes.

Strangely, the car stops at what appears to be the loading center of an old warehouse, and Guy gets out, garbles off some coded instruction about _jostling the goods_ to the driver, and then the car is pulling back out.

Guy's gone from the car; Darby's in the car, apparently going... somewhere? He thought he was going to be taken to wherever this douchenozzle was holding Guevara. Current events don't add up to what he'd expected. Then again, nothing has been the static norm for him since Ricky Starks clocked him off that ladder.

Now, he has no idea what to expect. He just wants to get out of this alive, and that realization has his gears turning, nerves humming beneath his flesh and urging him to _do_ something. He's suddenly a ball of energy waiting to explode, and he's going to...

This nuance of situational confusion, self-aware thirst for life, and the almost electric surge pulsing within has Darby's brows furrowing and he instinctively knows he needs to run. _Now_. No holding back. And so, he acts. He throws himself between the driver's side and passenger's seat, squeezing into the front and into the newly vacated spot. His back slams into the passenger's side door, his hand catches the handle and the door pops open. There's no time to react, and there's nothing to grab onto. He falls...

...and then a hand catches him around the calf, gripping tight enough that the fabric of the sweatpants doesn't hinder the hold.

Darby's hanging headfirst, half out of the car; there's cold air whizzing past his head and it stings when a little rock nicks his ear. He's a couple inches shy of rubbing the skin off his skull and onto the pavement.

Another set of hands grab at his legs, these ones angled awkwardly and coming from the backseat, so the first grab had to have been the driver, and it's painfully obvious that the driver is one-handing the wheel and overly distracted when the car swerves and narrowly misses another vehicle barreling by.

Darby's heart is beating so fast that it hurts and he's not entirely sure if he's breathing. He pulls with everything between his abs and upper-body to get himself semi-upright and he grabs onto the door. He's weirdly positioned, his ass elevated, hands fumbling, arms straining to hold his own weight against gravity and the velocity of the moving car while his legs are restrained by forceful hands inside the vehicle.

It's hard to say if he'd rather get back in the car, or take a dive out of it.

There's a millisecond moment where he realizes how bizarre this must look, the way he's angled out of the vehicle, and for that reason alone he hopes no one sees. There's surprisingly little traffic. Then there's a part of his brain that wants people to see, for the sake that they might be able to help. And of course, there's the partially deranged, definitely unhinged, adrenaline-high part of him that wants people to see for an entirely different reason.

Because, if he takes a nasty spill, someone should see that. Someone should film that. People should be able to watch it over and over and know that this shit happened. It's thrilling and bizarre and Darby almost laughs because in a strange way it's... an incredible feeling. There's a freeing sensation to just letting go.

He's toeing the line of life and death, and his hand on the car door is getting sweat-slick, and he's just temped to let go and see how bad the fall is.

Road rash doesn't scare him. Broken bones are nothing.

But what these fuckers in the car are clearly up to, he's not into that.

His hand slips and Darby tips backwards, draws his arms over his chest, wrists crossed like he's ready for a coffin drop. His eyes are closed and he blindly kicks at the hands holding him; he's ready to take that nasty, bloody bump on the road.

He's ready and expecting the clutch of pain, a siren of agony, the shock of impact.

None of that comes.

A set of hands grabbing at his legs managed to slide up and catch around his waist, and he's pulled in to safety, tucked into a tight hold and the car door is slammed closed almost as an afterthought.

"What the hell is your problem? Do you have a death wish?!" The driver and both backseat thugs are yelling curses and questions at Allin, but Darby's eyes are still closed and he's trying to catch his breath.

His skin is tingling from the cut of the wind; his insides are on fire with dampened fear, swelling relief, and an unhealthy dose of excitement. Exhilaration, cosmic rebirth.

The backseat thug who hadn't tried to molest him looks and sounds pissed when he belts: "We had to get stuck with an adrenaline junkie! I'm not paid enough for this shit!"

When Darby finally manages to settle down, catch his breath, and calm his racing heart, the grabby thug is pulling his smaller frame into the back seat and holding onto him for dear life... as if the slighter man would float away if let go.

For Darby Allin, the spike of adrenaline is starting to fade and fatigue is setting in like an old enemy, gnawing at him from the inside.

"Hey, guys, he's got a stiffy," the grabby fucker who's holding the skater says, and he sounds as amused as he does bewildered.

The other thug and the driver ignore the grabass.

Allin hadn't even noticed the state of arousal, too caught up in everything going on. And even if he had, what was there to do about it? He gives the tiniest raise of a shoulder that could almost pass for a shrug of Orange Cassidy's caliber.

"Near death experiences make you horny? You got a little angel lust?" Mr Grabby is still holding the skater, Allin's back pressed solidly against the bigger guy's chest. One huge arm is barred over his chest while the other is tight over his midsection. The forearm over his middle drops marginally and makes slight contact with Darby's clothed dick.

"Fucking... pervert," Allin spits the words out, but his whole body is feeling both electric and drained, so he does nothing to physically impede. Even if he could get out of this guy's grip, there's nowhere could go.

It gets more uncomfortable when the skater is bodily adjusted and pulled more firmly onto his grabber's lap, setting Darby's ass directly on his holder's tented trousers.

"...you horny bastard." Darby finds himself saying, his face pulled into an ineffective scowl. His expression folds like origami, crumpled paper, pinched into one of disgust and discomfort when he feels a shift and then a steady little pattern of canting hips, and his holder is literally just grinding against his thinly clothed ass. The contact isn't skin-on-skin. It's just degrading and unpleasant. He's not sure whether or not this qualifies as some form of rape, and he doesn't want to think on it. He doesn't want that word rattling around in his head. Doesn't want to dissect the situation.

He keeps his eyes shut and tries to think about what he's going to do when this is all over. If he survives and gets out alive. His mouth twitches, almost smiling when he decides he's going to get good food, the kind that takes proper knife cuts and sauteed vegetables. The idea of warm, nutritional food does it for him, warms his insides a bit. And then he decides, of course, maybe he'd prep the food himself, and share it with Jon...

It's a pleasant idea, maybe too pleasant.

Because it's certainly not his idea when his body starts rocking in sync with the one rutting behind him.

His eyes are closed and he leans back against the thug holding him, and his dick's got a mind of its own, sprung up and pining for attention like a half starved pup. He can feel the larger man's own hard on as it ruts against his backside, and it only adds to his own body's spike in temperature and pooling heat. Darby's mouth falls open and he's breathing in rapid succession, little bursts and aborted gasps.

A natural porn star, primed and ready for amateur hour.

That arm that had been around the skater's midsection is removed; the hand dips into the loose band of the sweats and grabs a fistful of Allin, and the sound that rips through those vocal cords is as obscene as it is haunting.

Shame wars with instant gratification, and like it does more often than not, the gratification wins.

Darby doesn't touch himself often. Apart from his time with Jon, which isn't often enough, he's mostly celibate.

So he's exceptionally sensitive and his hips piston forth like they're moved by a hydraulic force. Once it starts, his brain seemingly comes unplugged and his body chases that feeling.

The thug jerks him off with sloppy pulls that are less than impressive but more than qualified to get the job done, and he continues to grind into Allin until both of them get off and shoot their loads. By then, the grabby thug's hold on him is completely lax, and Darby slips out of those arms and drops himself into the middle seat so that he's out of that soiled lap and sitting between the thugs once more. His sweats are sticky with seed and he's not entirely sure why there's moisture forming in his eyes.

He's fine. Nothing hurts...

_Except, maybe it does hurt. On the inside._

He can take physical pain, strain, pressure, assault and beatings. He can take on any measure of stress. But this new feeling inside is raw in ways he's not familiar with. He tucks his chin towards his chest, looking down, deciding he doesn't want his captors to see tears if any slip out.

The other thug- the one that isn't a molesting pervert- he looks absolutely nasueated. "I hope you lose your job for that. We're not supposed to-"

"He wanted it," Mr Grabby breathed the words out and tapered them off with a little laugh that sounded more forced than natural.

_He wanted it._

Somehow, those words make Darby feel worse, and he wishes more than anything he could just collapse inward and cease to exist. He wants a shower and clean clothes. He wants food, and he wants Jon Moxley to call him a kid and tell him _life ain't fair_ \- because it isn't. He's always liked that about Jon, that he's so straightforward and blunt. It's familiar and comforting, and there's no bullshit to wade through to figure things out.

It's not like when he was with Priscilla and she was constantly changing her mind or talking in riddles or expecting him to be able to read her mind.

...and that's what does him in.

Priscilla.

He hasn't though about her in a long time, and the memory of her makes him weak in a way he isn't ready to deal with. He feels like he's going to vomit, but there's not enough in his stomach to make that happen.

But something _has_ to happen.

It has to.

He decidedly likes the distant and non-grabby thug best, so the plan is to spring for Mr Grabby Molester Fuck. There's not enough room to go for a wristlock or to work in small joint manipulation. He needs to go bigger. 

He can't lock elbow-and-collar, can't go for something technical that would be countered expectantly. A fair amount of wrestling moves are only effective if both participants play by unspoken rules.

_DDTs take you down, and you know how to fall. When someone goes for a reversal or kicks out at two, you let it happen. When you hit the posts or turnbuckle, always sell it like it hurts. When being picked up, there are ways to hold your body to make it easier on both participants, and it looks good too._

But outside the ring, none of this means anything. It's hard to work against unexpected moves with no obvious telegraph and means of counter.

Just when he makes a decision, the car comes to a stop and the engine is killed. "Alright, let's get him out..."

The driver is out first and the thugs follow, grabbing Allin tight and forcing him along.

Darby almost laughs when he realizes where they are. Because it's the exact same place they'd dropped Guy off earlier. He doesn't bother asking why they gave him the runaround.

He gets an answer anyway.

"Boss likes a little time to set up for new arrivals."

And with that, the driver and Mr Grabby are on either side of Allin, and the one who is decidedly the most decent of the three cracks his knuckles and offers: "It's nothing personal. Just gotta make it look good."

Darby isn't sure what that means, what's suppose to look good. He gets an answer when the guy throws a punch his way that will surely blacken his eye but not break his orbital bone.

 _How considerate_...

Darby takes the hit, head whipping to the side. And it's nothing. Not much worse than a glancing blow in the ring. This asshole knows how to pull his punches, and the young wrestler is admittedly grateful. He doesn't want to get the shit kicked out of him. He's been through enough.

Driver and Grabby work on forcing Darby along, but the skater's favored thug- his own personal Mr Nice Guy- stays behind with the car to check his phone, makes a call and tells his wife he'll be home soon.

On the way into a side entrance of the building, Grabby tries to sneak in a quick grope and it sets Allin off.

He retaliates the first way that comes to mind. Since his arms are restrained, he goes for a headbutt that doesn't connect as solidly as he'd have liked, but it lands him a follow-up opportunity. His face is pressed close to Grabby and Darby is able to capitalize by sinking his teeth into a thick piece of flesh at the juncture between neck and shoulder.

Grabby screams in surprise and it's a loud, grating sound that cuts off with a rattle. Grabby gets a hand on Darby's head and another on his face, thumb nearly gouging one of Allin's eyes, and he forcefully wrenches the skater away... but that mouth pulls back with a mutilated mass of meat and surprisingly minimal blood, and the blonde looks feral and ravenous.

Allin opens his mouth and slowly eases the slab of meat out, pushing it with his tongue. It hits the pavement with a wet smack. "Touch me again, see what else I bite off."

It's an obvious threat and Grabby takes it seriously.

"He bit me..."

Driver snorts like he's amused and trying not to laugh. "This is why we get paid the big bucks, huh?"

They force Allin into the warehouse without further incident.

When he gets his first look at Guevara, he feels less bad about himself.

"You sick fucks..."

...

Jon Moxley can hardly believe this is happening. Brian Cage, of all people has sent mass messages out to everyone possible through multiple platforms. Images of Darby Allin battered among a group of goons and their skinny, scraggly leader, and then shots of license plates...

Mox had been checking for messages or signs of Darby, hoping to find something to indicate that he was fine. 

Now, the kid is decidedly _not_ fine, but at least he's alive. 

Mox's insides pulse with anger and worry. He won't be getting any rest until that kid is back in his arms.

He gets a private message that has him walking out the door, on a mission and ready for war.

...

Meanwhile, Brian Cage is feeling pretty good about himself and his latest deeds. His phone is blowing up with people asking for details or offering their own services. It's not like the movies. Ordinary people cannot just dig up information on license plates, and they certainly do not know anything about hacking into traffic cams to help locate people. Brian had hoped it would be like that, all cool and high tech like the movies. But he does get a response from Miro, about having seen a line of suspicious black vehicles...

Unfortunately, the results come back deducing that one of those black cars was a hearse and the train was headed off by a sedan, and they'd been en route to a burial plot to conclude a funeral...

Wrong cars. Meaning no Darby.

But at least people are trying to help.

And then there's Ricky, who is beside himself. He'd thrown himself a little pity party and gotten over his own grief. Now he just wanted to get Darby out of the mess he'd created.

When Ricky's phone buzzes he almost ignores it. He doesn't want to talk to anyone. He grabs and checks it anyways and is surprised to find a message from a strange and familiar number. He opens the message and finds an attachment. He reads the corresponding text message before he addresses the image.

 _You think you're clever. I saw the photos your friend posted.  
I_ _took a photo too.  
Mine is better.  
Call off your little investigative squad.  
Or else._

Ricky taps the file attachment and opens the image, and he's greeted with the sight of a familiar face. Darby's black and blue, sporting both new and former injuries, with blood dripping down his chin in a way that makes him look positively inhuman, caged and wild. The one fact that is even remotely redeemable, is the distinct clarity in Allin's eyes.

Guy hadn't drugged the skater. That's important on a very core level. So maybe there's still a chance to fix this awful shit. But first, the message needs some serious regard; the threat was obvious, and it's terrible that Guy is not only aware of their attempted actions but is willing to take on more drastic measures.

"Brian, stop with the photos." If he hadn't lost his cool before, he's certainly lost it now. A bout of panic is setting in, and he's increasingly less sure how to handle it. "Put the damn phone down!"

Brian lowers the phone and raises an eyebrow; he looks at his friend skeptically; even without looking directly at his phone, his fingers are tapping and typing and muscle memory is doing its job to relay the right words. "You don't mean that."

"I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it-!"

"...but I got-"

"Brian!"

"-I got an address, and I already sent it to Moxley."

The look that crosses Ricky's face is one of shock and betrayal.

Because their interference could make things worse- possibly fatal- for Allin.

And, maybe, because he wanted to be the one to fix things. Not Jon fucking Moxley.


	11. In Order

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, Mox x Darby pairing can be requested on Champagne Corks and Orange Peels.

The words 'crushing disappointment' are accurate and yet understated in regards to how Mox feels. He'd been tipped off about where he might find Darby, and he'd gotten there as fast as humanly possible, running red lights and ignoring speed limits, almost getting into an accident on a few occasions. The location was out of the way enough that he had trouble finding it, even with the aid of GPS, but he got there and what he found was nothing shy of... well...

There was nothing there.

Just an old empty lot with overgrown weeds and the demolished remains of what was might have been an old educational facility at some point.

He's fairly sure he's at the given address, but no one's there. Which means no Darby Allin, and he's no closer to finding the kid.

For that and the false hope, he would love a chance to wreck Brian Cage. He'd never liked the guy anyway and this just drives the point home.

He does make time to do something he never thought he'd do. When he hears the hype about the Spanish God and how the crew and talent of AEW is coming together for a fundraiser that could allegedly bring Guevara home safe (he's all too aware of how much it rings of a scam), he shows up. He doesn't actively do anything, doesn't mingle, doesn't make a fool out of himself to get support for the cause, but he does leave a donation of his own.

Any skepticism he'd felt in regards to Guevara's absence fades when he gets a good look at Jake Hager.

Because Hager's usually a collected guy, and he looks like an absolute mess.

Right away, the two men get each other, which is strange because they'd never seen eye to eye. They have common ground, both sorely missing someone and feeling helpless to do anything about it.

They fall into a shoot match that is cathartic enough to relieve tension, and they part ways shortly after Mox admittedly taps out. (It was either that or risk having his arm broken; pride isn't worth being put out when he has shit to do.) They part on good terms and Mox is sorely tempted to throw his feelings into punching a wall or tipping back the bottle or some combination of both.

He does neither.

He takes a trip to a familiar trail and goes for a run to clear his head. All the while, he thinks of the number of times he and Darby have met up early mornings for such an activity. And the one time he opted to prove that he could skate too... with rollerskates, and he fell back and planted his ass on the pavement.

He'd never seen Darby laugh so hard to the point of nearly falling over.

That sound and that little crinkle in the corners of the blonde's eyes- worth all the humiliation in the world.

Mox enjoys his run and reminisces all the while. Four long laps of his mind playing some of Darby's finest moments on a loop.

For having a quiet demeanor, a deadpan expression, and a fairly dark sense of humor, the kid could be a ray of sunshine in the right environment and Jon fuckin' loves him for it.

What's more, the feelings are mutual. And that's really something. 

The kid loves the same way he wrestles. With reckless abandon. There's never any uncertainty. Shyness, a little, but the kid never second guessed himself. Every touch, no matter how gentle or firm was made with intent. Every clash of their mouths and unions of their bodies happened with unspoken but understood willful approval.

Jon likes when they face each other during those moments of intimacy, likes seeing emotions flow over that pale face like ripples in the water, smooth and captivating and ever changing.

Darby isn't quite as sappy, to Jon's knowledge. The kid is more than comfortable with taking it from behind or riding on top- whatever gets them where they aim to be. It would almost seem impersonal... if not for the fact that Darby liked to cuddle.

Jon always holds him, and they spoon with Allin's back against Mox's chest. It's a position they've found agreeable and comfortable. And Jon can hold the younger man, and Darby can bask in a warm, safe hold...

-

Jon wants that kid back, so much that it hurts on an almost physical level. And he'll make sure it happens, even if he has to make a deal with the devil himself-

-which is partway how he ends up at a table, sitting across from Silver and Reynolds.

Desperate times, desperate measures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone surprised by the addition of the Dark Order, remember that Champagne Corks and Orange Peels is also in this verse. Everything is linked together, and they were mentioned with Sue during Jericho's 30.


End file.
